Harry James
by arrogantbullyingtoerag
Summary: James Potter had never been so afraid of anything as he was of baby Harry.


James Potter had never been so afraid of anything as he was of baby Harry.

Tiny Harry with his little fingers and kicking legs; smiling Harry with crinkles in his cheeks; happy Harry, barely big enough to handle a Snitch, let alone a Quaffle. There was something inconceivable about the boy, and it might well have been the fact of his existence. At only twenty years old, James Potter was a _father_, and he might never have known the word for all that it meant now. (It hadn't seemed like much from his own mouth, but from Harry's...) Lily had brought their child into the world, of course—his brave, brave wife—but still this beautiful little boy had _come from him. _For one who has born into a world of wonders, this was something else entirely, and in spite of all his parents praise, James had not thought himself capable of... _this. _It was magic, wasn't it? The newfound father had achieved an awful lot in his still short life, to be sure, and had performed some remarkable magic at that, but never had anything been quite so magical as this. Tiny Harry. _Fragile _Harry.

"Babies bounce, right?"

Exhausted, Lily Potter looked to her husband as he recalled Lily _Evans _doing four years prior (or four months, even, after him calling out "it's open!" with the redhead in little more than a towel). Somehow, that look scared him less than his son.

"James," the woman began, with what little voice she had left, "I've not seen you drop a Quaffle in nine years—just _hold _him!" He might have been pleased with the Quidditch reference, but still James thought it necessary to point out that Harry was considerably larger than a regulation Quaffle, and heavier at that. More to the point, a Quaffle could fall from fifty feet without considerable damage; he did not imagine the same to be true for Harry. The boy was more a Bludger than anything, what with the way James stepped backwards when Lily held his son out towards him. He shook his head (hands shaking of their own accord), and Lily, who had done an awful lot for one day, and already had _one_ baby to take care of, only sighed and returned the boy to her breast. (Was it worth mentioning that James Potter was not big on sharing?)

His wife fell asleep some time after that, and when he moved to kiss her forehead, the former Gryffindor (insofar as _former _is ever applicable when it came to ones house) noticed that his son had not. Harry looked up at him with the eyes Lily had worn on their wedding day, and still they scared him more now than they did then. James paused. Far be it from him to understand how something far less complicated (and considerably more fun) than Potions could produce something worlds greater than anything about which Libatius Borage had ever written, and yet it had. Here he was, tiny Harry, the best of both of them. Curling toes and tiny fists and suckling lips (the greedy little bugger); every inch of him was astonishing. How in Merlin's name was James supposed to nurture this little life when half the time he could barely take care of himself? How could he call himself a _father_, when _Head Boy _had all but been too much? How could he possibly keep this perfect little thing safe?

Sirius had always said he would make a piss poor role model.

Lily shifted in her sleep, then, and—as babies were wont to do—Harry began to cry. It was more of a whining at first, of course, but soon the boy (having egged himself on, the little shit) was red with the effort. Shushing did nothing, and panicking less. Momentarily, James considered a quick _Silencio_, but knowing that Lily would (rightly) divorce him if she ever found out, the twenty-year-old saw no other option than to reach for his son.

The Chaser had learned long ago how best to lock his fingers so as not to lose the Quaffle to an opponent, and although nothing but gravity threatened him now, the technique came in handy with Harry. He held him first at arms-length, then awkwardly against his shoulder, and soon with one arm wrapped beneath the boys' bottom. Little Harry clasped his collar, and James couldn't conceive how fingernails could be so very _small. _His son felt tiny in his arms, yet _grand_; bigger than anything the twenty-year-old had ever held. There was milk on his lips and blood in his hair and spit on his chin, but the newborn had stopped crying, and James had never seen anything quite so beautiful (but maybe he was biased). Lily's eyes suited the boy, in any case—and so would his glasses, if and when it came to that.

Harry was smiling (he would grow into those gums), and it was a terrifying sort of thing. His father was almost ashamed that he could love something so much more than Lily; that the fall was no easier the second time around. James Potter wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry, but as neither seemed to outweigh the other, he instead kissed his son's salty cheek and felt his hands tremble with the weight of it all. This was not the sort of fear he expected to ever move on from, but Harry was smiling that squashed little smile, and it was alright to be afraid. After all, the best of him was no longer _him_, but Harry. Tiny Harry. Harry _James._


End file.
